An Angel in White
by angelofthepizzaman
Summary: After a hunt gone wrong, Dean gets sent to a psychiatric institution. With a demon on the loose, however, the town is far from safe. Sam is missing, and Dean's doctor, Castiel Novak, is ironically the only person who treats him like anything other than a complete mental case.
1. A Mishap

"It's a werewolf," Sam said. He shut his laptop and leaned back in his chair, surveying the second-rate motel room they were staying in. A pair of old, creaky beds with yellowed sheets that Sam supposed used to be white sat on the other end of the room; there was a door to his left that led to the cramped bathroom.

"You're that sure?" Dean asked, taking another swig of beer before setting the glass on the table in front of him. "We've only been here a day."

"Positive. All the signs are there – the missing hearts, the kills during the full moon, the works. And I know who it is, too; remember that shop owner? Jack? They're all related to him – one was his ex-wife, another was an old business partner, from before he inherited the store-"

"Makes sense."

"I figured we'd find him tonight and-"

"Gank 'im?"

"Yeah. Poor guy. Probably doesn't even know what he is."

Dean nodded. That was true, just like it was of most werewolves – they thought they were just regular Joes, didn't suspect themselves to be the culprit of any crime. But Dean couldn't allow for sympathy; wolves were monsters, the same as any other, and they had to be stopped.

As they buckled themselves into the Impala, guns loaded with silver bullets in the trunk, Dean felt the strangest sense of relief. It was a normal hunt for once – just a simple black-and-white case, which was definitely something Dean could use when everything was in shades of gray. It felt great to shove everything to the back of his mind; no yellow-eyed demon, no Apocalypse, just he and his brother going after a werewolf in the middle of Idaho.

It took just a few minutes to get to the guy's house; just a few moments later and the brothers, weapons in hand, were slipping through the door – Dean was pleasantly surprised by how easy it was to break in – into the dark hallway.

_Where d'you think he is?_ Dean mouthed.

_Upstairs_, Sam said. Dean nodded and continued on.

The whole thing, however relaxing it was to put the end of the world on the back burner, set off shrieking alarms in Dean's mind. Something felt _off._

They stopped in front of a closed door to the left of the stairs. _This is it. _He didn't know how he knew; it was just intuition telling him that the wolf was there, hiding behind a few inches of poorly-painted wood. He snaked his head around, just enough to nod solemnly at his brother.

Dean turned the handle and strode into the room, firearm raised.

The room was empty. A tiny lamp – the only source of light in the room besides the dim glow from the crescent moon spilling through the window – occupied its space on the nightstand, turned off for the moment. Besides that, an empty bed stood near the middle of the room, its covers hastily strewn across it. The bed's usual inhabitant was nowhere in sight.

_He heard us._

Dean spun breathlessly to face his brother, a paranoid thought taking over his body – _he's got Sam, he's got Sam_ – only to be greeted by the blank wall of the hallway.

A pair of coarse hands suddenly appeared behind Dean, smothering his mouth with one hand and pressing a glimmering knife to his throat with the other. The owner of the hands trembled violently, barely able to grasp the weapon he held.

"P-put the gun down," the attacker spat nervously.

Slowly, painfully aware of the jagged metal grazing his skin, Dean sank to the ground and let the weapon slip out of his hand. It fell forwards a few feet, barely out of his reach. His breath caught.

"I'm going to t-take my hand off your mouth now," the man said wheezily. "If you say anything . . ."

An instant later, the hand came away from Dean's face. The man made a few movements behind him.

"I'm calling 911."

Dean's blood froze. _Come on, Sam, you can come help any minute now,_ he thought. But there was no trace of his brother.

"This is a misunderstand-"

The hand on the knife tensed, barely moved backwards. A burst of hot breath hit the back of Dean's neck.

"Sure it is. W-"

The man broke off whatever he intended to say, turning his attention to the person on the other end.

"Someone broke into my house . . . I'm alright, I'm watching him. I'm at . . ."

Dean listened as he shakily recited his address. This could mean months, years in jail, and all over a stupid mistake. Why hadn't he listened to his gut? It was too easy. He couldn't let this happen. He'd made a stupid mistake. And what about Sam? Why did he leave? Was he okay? A future in jail was something Dean had thought about before – it came with all the other possibilities, like being killed on a hunt – but he'd never imagined it this seriously. All of a sudden, a life trapped behind cold iron bars seemed too vividly real. He'd failed so badly . . .

The call ended. Dean tensed. He had to fight; it was the only way – and the knife dug deeper into his throat. A slimy trickle wormed its way down his neck.

"Don't move."

The two stood there – both tensed, both hearts pulsing erratically beneath their chests. Dean thought he could hear sirens blaring one moment, but the air turned completely silent the next. The police would be there in a few minutes; an uneasy internal stopwatch was ticking down in Dean's mind, counting down the seconds since the call had ended. The closest police station was maybe twenty minutes away – and who knew how much time had already passed.

Dean jerked his leg backwards, planting his foot on a bony calf, at the same time grabbing upwards and yanking the knife from the man's hand. He pushed, and the wolf toppled to the ground with a heavy exhale. Dean snagged his gun from the carpet and whirled around; the monster had fallen where into the spot most lit by the moonlight, so there was a blanket of light on one half of his face and a pure black shadow on the rest. His eyes were widened, glistening with fear as he looked pleadingly up at Dean. An enormous quake shook his body. But Dean was indifferent. He'd grown used to monsters, demons, everything begging for their lives. They were all the same. Whether they knew what they were or not, he knew that deep down they'd enjoyed killing.

Blood boiling, he raised the gun and aimed it at the wolf's chest.

"D-don't kill me, you can have anything you want – no, everything – just leave me alone, I-" he went on, babbling unintelligibly.

"You're a monster."

"W-what? I, I don't know what you're-"

_"__Shut up!" _He fired a foot away from the werewolf, smiled grimly as it backed off and whimpered.

"You killed those people. You don't understand me, I know, but I have to do this."

The creature looked up at him, its expression changing from one to fear to one of mocking. Its lips parted in a gruesome smile. It blinked, and when its eyes were open again, they were pure, empty darkness.

"A demon," he muttered.

The demon grinned wider, cocking its head to the side. Then it laughed a bone-chilling, terrible laugh.

"So easy. So easy to trick you. Put out the right signs – a heart gone there, a few murders during the full moon, and you run in without thinking like a mindless lemming."

Dean pulled the trigger. Blood splattered on the demon's shirt, but it just coughed and went on talking.

"Go on and try to kill me. You're already right where I want you," it said smugly. "And nothing can change that."

He fired again. Dean knew it was useless – silver couldn't kill a demon – but he didn't care. The body seized momentarily in response to the shot, then the demon twisted its head upwards, opening its vessel's mouth impossibly wide. A thick stream of dark smoke spewed into the air. As it left, escaping underneath a crack in the window, the man's head lolled a few times, then fell forward limply to lay on his chest.

_Right where it wants me?_

The police were close now – he could hear the wail of the sirens as the cars approached. An instant later, the flashing lights shone through the window. Dean covered his eyes, nearly blinded.

He needed to get out of there. Fast. Dean took a cautious step, heart beating dangerously fast –

_Bang. _Someone had forced the door open downstairs; Dean heard footsteps. There were at least three people there. An instant later, one of them began climbing the stairway.

_Creak._

Dean backed up, reentering the room-

_Creak._ Another step.

He ran into the bedroom, almost crashing into the bed in his haste. The police officer was close behind – and suddenly Dean realized the weapon he was holding in his hand. _No, I can't. Those people are innocent. _Running was a better option – but he was twenty feet above ground, at least. The course of action was obvious. He stepped towards the window. Loud shouts were echoing through the house now, and a barking voice was just behind him.

Finally, Dean reached the window. He grabbed the bottom of it and pried upwards. The glass was stuck. _Come on, come on, _he thought. His fingers shook, but the glass didn't budge.

"Freeze! Turn around and put your hands in the air! Put your weapon down!"

The gun clunked to the floor. Dean turned, raising his arms as he did so. A police officer stood at the entrance to the bedroom; as Dean watched, he slowly unhooked a pair of handcuffs from his belt.

As he was cuffed, Dean sneaked one last glimpse outside. The Impala was still there, parked in the driveway. Sam was gone.

So this was what defeat felt like. It was bitter, cold and a feeling Dean wasn't completely used to. He'd almost been caught before – plenty of times – but he'd always found a way out, some loophole or exit or something he could use to slip away.

When Dean woke up the next morning, he felt the cold sting of unforgiving metal around his wrists. His head was resting on his chest; he lifted it to peer around the room. It was bare, except for the table he was handcuffed to and a chair on the other side. A narrow window overlooked him from the only door, and one of the lights on the ceiling was flickering, emitting a soft buzz.

"Sleeping Beauty awakes," chided a voice from a man entering the room. He was short, with a crown of receding gray hairs perched on his shiny forehead. His suit hugged his protruding belly.

"Ha, ha," Dean said humorlessly. "And who would you be?"

"I," the man puffed his chest out, "would be your interrogator. Agent Johnson."

A hefty file fell from the man's hand onto the desk and he opened it, turning a photo inside toward Dean.

"Recognize this man, Winchester?"

He did. The shopkeeper looked even worse in the picture than he had in person. His skin was pasty and white, his glossed-over eyes rolled back in his head. There were bloodied holes in his shirt where Dean's bullets had hit their marks.

Dean perused the photo, pretended to consider the image. "I do."

"Then please enlighten me, Mr. Winchester, as to what you were doing at this poor man's house at midnight yesterday."

"I was having a few drinks with him. I mean, someone had to. The guy didn't have many friends, y'know?"

The officer slammed his hands on the desk and leaned forward until Dean could smell the rancid breaths leaving his flared nostrils.

"Don't be smart with me," he said testily. "This man was murdered, and you're the number one suspect. I suggest talking if you want even a sliver of a chance of not spending your sorry life in jail!"

He straightened back up, fixing Dean with the most threatening glare he could muster. Dean barely kept himself from laughing. After years of demon hunting, ages of seeing the most terrible monsters no one could even dream of, and smiting every last one, a puffed-up interrogator with a beer gut was nothing. He was pathetic, really.

"By the way, my men and I took the liberty of searching your car and hotel room last night," Johnson continued. "I have to say, you're probably the craziest criminal I've ever seen. Most murders happen because of jealousy or revenge. But this – this devil worship? Demon hunting? _Really?_" The agent's voice took on an incredulous, mocking tone. "You're just sick."

Dean narrowed his eyes. He wished he could be as ignorant as Johnson. It would be a relief to go to bed at night knowing there were no monsters, and that no one's lives depended on him. The guy didn't know how good he had it. Dean hadn't had a day off since he was four.

"You want the truth, then? The real truth?"

"Please." Johnson crossed his arms over his chest.

Dean paused.

"Jack committed the murders."

Johnson's eyes widened. For a moment, Dean thought the agent was coughing, but the wheezing sounds forcing themselves from his throat were laughs. He rocked back and forth on his feet, clutching his stomach. Finally, he wiped a tear from his eye. Johnson turned his eyes to Dean, red-faced, and whistled.

"Whew," he managed to choke out. "Thanks for that. I haven't heard a good joke in a while."

"It's true."

Johnson shook his head. "Those were animal attacks. No human could have done them," and broke into another fit of chuckles.

"Humor me."

"Alright. Let's pretend you're right for a minute," the interrogator said dubiously. "If Jack was the one killing people, why?"

"Thank about it," Dean said, "This is a small town, right? You knew all the victims?"

When the agent nodded, he went on.

"They all had some relation to him. One was his ex, one was an old business partner. He would've had reason to hurt them."

Johnson stood silently for a moment, then agreed reluctantly.

"Still doesn't explain why they look like animal attacks. Nothing human could do that."

"Don't I get a phone call or something?" Dean interjected suddenly.

"Don't change the subject."

"Isn't it my right, though?"

Johnson sighed. "Fine, you'll get one – but first, how did Jack do it? Supposing you're right."

Dean shrugged.

"Beats me."

"You know something," Johnson muttered darkly. "And I've got all the time in the world to figure out what. I suggest you don't try keeping secrets."

The room went quiet. The only noise Dean heard was the buzz of the nearly burned-out light overhead.

"You know what they found in the body?" the agent said casually. "Bullets. But not just any bullets – silver ones." He strolled forwards and looked Dean in the eye. "You thought you were going after a werewolf, didn't you?"

Dean stayed silent.

"I asked you a question."

"It makes sense."  
"Makes sense? More sense than animal attacks?"

"The kills all happened during the full moon. They looked like animal attacks but – an animal attack? What animal rips the heart out of its victims?"

"You're insane," Johnson said.

"I was trying to protect people. Those things deserved what they got."

Johnson shook his head, stepping back.

_"__Those?_ How many people have you killed?"

"Those weren't people."

Johnson's clammy hand fell off the door handle. He gripped it again.

"I'll be right back," he said, slipping behind the door. It shut with a final clank behind him.

A few minutes later, the door clicked open. A different man – this one taller, darker-skinned, with a lean frame – entered.

"Good morning."

Silence.

"All right then. I'll skip the formalities. Most arrests we can let go. Give them a court date and send them on their way until then. But there are a few cases – like yours – when we have to make an exception. Can't let a murderer run loose, can we? So, Mr. Winchester – I'm afraid you'll have to stay in a psychiatric institution for a few months."

Dean was relieved for a second – anything would be better than prison, especially knowing there was a demon on the loose – then froze."Wait – a few _months_?"

"Well, to be quite frank, you're dangerous. People wouldn't feel safe knowing you were running loose on the streets."

"I'm not-"

"You can't change this. We're just following protocol. Again, I'm sorry. Your things will remain here at the station until your date. They will be safe here. Now-"

He unlatched Dean's handcuffs from the table. Dean stood shakily.

Driving to the institution took about two hours. Dean spent the majority of the time with his cheek pressed to the cold window, eyes closed. As the time passed, the scenery changed – the buildings became more and more spread out, eventually disappearing altogether but for the occasional barn in the distance. Even the road seemed less tame; Dean didn't pinpoint exactly when it occurred, but the paved street gradually gave way to a muddy, gravelly path that made the police car jump at random intervals. The drive was almost peaceful.

The car finally pulled to a slow stop, bits of gravel still crunching under its wheels. I'll find a way out of this, Dean told himself as he disembarked from the car.

There had to be a way out. He'd call Sam, get busted out – something. He wasn't crazy.

The building looked nearly as ancient and run-down as the barren trees growing around it. Ivy sprouted from the walls, extending its colorful limbs across the entire red-brick front of the faded institution. Steel letters hung over the door, spelling in their rusted shapes The Challis Psychiatric Hospital.

The officer who had accompanied Dean now pushed him forward. Before opening the door, he freed Dean from his handcuffs.

As he entered the ward, shadowed by the officer, he knew that no matter what he tried to convince himself to believe, getting out of here wouldn't be easy.

Instantly he shoved the unpleasant thought back. He'd find a way. He wasn't just an ordinary patient at the Loony Bin. He was Dean Winchester. His stay wouldn't last long.


	2. Chapter 2

The inside of the hospital looked much more friendly and clean than the outside. The walls were painted a bland but fresh shade of white, and around the edges of the lobby were rows of plastic chairs. An elevator stood at the back of the room, next to a hallway. Most of the chairs were empty, but one middle-aged woman sat alone, crying softly. Briefly he wondered what was wrong.

As he walked past her, Dean angled his neck to get a better look at the woman. She continued to sniffle, taking a tissue from her purse and dabbing her nose with it.

The officer pushed Dean forwards, toward a desk where a young lady was standing.

Dean turned back around, watching as a man dressed in white scrubs approached the woman in the chair. She looked up, caught a glimpse of Dean and blanched.

"The – he – I saw him on the TV," she blabbered to the doctor, who was currently patting her shoulder.

"It's alright, ma'am," he said. "Come on, let's go."

He slipped an arm under hers for support, and the two made their way toward the elevator in the back. They didn't get far before the woman dissolved into hysterics.

"I've changed my mind!" she screeched, pulling against the doctor's grip. "I want to go back! I don't want to be here!"

The doctor, with a placid expression, continued pulling her forward.

"Please," the woman yelled, tears trickling down her cheeks, "Let me go! I changed my mind!"

The doctor shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry, ma'am. But you checked yourself in. You can't change your mind last minute; you'll be here for at least a month."

She tried again to break free, struggling to escape with her arms flailing desperately around in the air. _"__Please!"_ she cried, voice cracking. "Help me! Anyone!"

No one came. The doctor grabbed her again, half-carrying, half-dragging her to the elevator.

The girl at the reception desk looked cheerfully up at Dean and the officer. Her smile disappeared for a moment when she caught sight of Dean, but she instantly plastered it back.

"Hello, sirs," she said jovially. "What can I do for you two today?"

_"__What?" _Dean exclaimed. "You're going to ignore what just happened?"

"Sir, this is a mental ward. Things like that happen all the time."

"That woman, she -"

The girl spun her head toward the officer next to Dean.

"I've got a patient here," he said. "Dean Winchester. He'll be staying here for two months. We believe he's schizophrenic."

"Alright," she responded, typing a few words into her laptop. "Gabe, will you take him to his room?"

A man Dean hadn't seen before suddenly appeared behind him, gripping his shoulder in a way that indicated Gabe wouldn't have a problem subduing Dean if he tried to get away.

"Sure," he said, and suddenly Dean was thrust forward, towards the same elevator the woman had been forced into.

When the elevator reached its destination – the third floor, a fact that Dean committed to memory – Gabe led Dean down first one hallway, then another, then another, all of them lined with identical white doors. At an interval of about every five feet, security cameras hung from the ceiling. Dean shuddered when he caught one following his movements as he walked beneath it. The place felt more like a labyrinthine prison than a hospital.

"The patients' quarters," he explained. "Everyone gets their own room. It's where they have their therapy sessions and where they stay unless they want to hang out downstairs. There's card games and stuff. Fun. The cafeteria's downstairs, too, but that food-" he made a gagging motion. Dean almost smiled.

They finally stopped in front of yet another white door. The numbers above the doorframe read 1212.

"Here you are," Gabe said. "Home sweet home. For a few months, anyway."

He started walking lazily down the hall.

"Wait!" Dean shouted back. "Am I just supposed to stay here?"  
Gabe nodded. "For now, anyway. You'll get to join the normal routine in the morning. But because you're a new patient, you need some time to adjust. That's what the head honcho says anyway."

The nurse waved and retreated, and Dean turned his attention to his room. The digs were modest, to say the least; the room was painted the same predictable shade as the rest of the hospital, and the floor was covered in a simple tan carpet. The carpet was conspicuously stain-free. In the far right corner, a simple cot stood, with a small table next to it. A cushioned chair sat to the right of the door, facing the bed. The light coming through the barred window in the middle of the wall indicated that it was still daytime outside, and probably a long while before sundown. There was a closed door to the left; when Dean opened it, he discovered a tiny bathroom, complete with a set of toiletries.

With nothing else to do, Dean returned to the cot in the corner and flopped down on the thin sheets. But every time he closed his eyes, the same images filled his mind: Sam's face, instants before he disappeared. It wasn't like him to just go AWOL like that. Sure, his brother had always been a bit more interested in the research than the actual hunting, but he would never run away. He wasn't a coward.

The things the demon had said finally made sense – he wanted Dean helpless, vulnerable. Dean's teeth clenched as he realized that was exactly the position he was in. Even if the demon possessed someone at the hospital, which was undoubtedly something it would do, it obviously wouldn't let Dean know until it was too late. Salt and holy water weren't exactly readily available resources, either, and drawing a gigantic pentagram in front of his door would probably get Dean in more trouble than it would help him.

He turned uneasily onto his side, trying to find a comfortable position on the lumpy mattress. There was only one way out, he decided. Although his own phone was still under lockdown at the police station, he'd just have to find another one.

With that half-baked plan in mind, Dean's thoughts finally slowed enough to allow him to fall into an on-and-off doze. Every few hours, he found himself awake again, staring at the ceiling above his head. He watched the sky outside occasionally, but the miniscule patch of stars he was able to see through the bars remained the same.

_Tap. Tap._

"Go away, Sammy," Dean groaned. "Just a few more minutes." He turned his head, smothering it in the warm pillow.

_Tap. Tap. Creak._

The door opened, and that was when Dean remembered with a pang – he wasn't with Sam. He spun around, cot creaking beneath him, and saw a round-faced nurse standing at the door.

"I-it's time to get up," she said nervously. "Breakfast's in half an hour." She set a folded outfit on the floor, then backed away. _Clank._

Dean walked to the pile of clothes on the floor and scrutinized it. A pair of white sweatpants, a white T-shirt, and a pair of underwear.

"Fashionable," he muttered under his breath, then carried the clothes into the bathroom to change.

"There's a new patient for you, Dr. Novak," Gabe greeted Castiel as he entered. "Name's Dean Winchester. Think you might've heard of him."

The name made Cas stop in his tracks. Winchester was a name he'd heard frequently over the past few weeks – on the news, as the suspect of a series of strange murders and grave desecrations.

"I see you have," Gabe continued. "Anyway, he's in room 1212. Ol' Zeke'll want you to do the typical therapy session with him."  
"Very well, Gabriel. But this – Winchester, he is being kept in a normal room? No restraints?"

Gabe shrugged. "It's what Ezekiel wanted. Give all patients the benefit of the doubt, no judgment, blah blah blah."

"I understand. I'll see him at the usual time?"

"Yeah." Gabriel made his signature smirk. "If you're too scared, we could get someone else to take over."

Castiel fixed his coworker with an icy glare.

"I can handle him. I may be new to this particular job, but I have done more in this field than you know, Gabriel."

"Whatever you say, sir."

Apparently, the person who created the schedule for the hospital had thought that waking up patients at the crack of dawn was a good plan. In the glimpse Dean got out his window before another unfamiliar nurse had whisked him downstairs to the cafeteria, he could tell that it was still pitch black outside. He arrived after the bulk of the patients, and was first in line to get a glob of what he hoped was eggs and pancakes plopped onto his tray.

He sat at the edge of a mostly-empty table. The atmosphere wasn't loud, but nonetheless it felt hectic. People who were sitting right next to each other exchanged conversation in bursts of shouting; others were sitting in small groups, flicking pieces of food at each other; and still more were silently moving bites around on their trays.

Did he really belong here? The answer was so simple; everyone else was so much – well, crazier – than he was. But that was probably what all of them thought, as well. He could be the only sane one in the room, or the craziest one. He rubbed his eyes exhaustedly.

_What I wouldn't give for a drink right now._

After breakfast, another nurse escorted Dean back to his room. She paused in front of another door at first, but after she opened it, he could see other patients sitting around tables, playing card games. Dean shook his head.

"I just want to go to my room, please."

"Y-yes, sir."

Dean was sprawled out on the bed, counting his breaths to keep his mind off Sam. If he didn't get some fresh air soon, he'd go even crazier than the doctors thought he was. It was only his first day there and he'd already been tempted to ask a nurse to bring a magazine – a _magazine, _for goodness' sake. He was sure they'd only have _Home & Garden _and girly garbage like that. He'd gotten to two-hundred and eighty breaths when someone knocked cautiously.

"Come in," he said.

A thin man stepped gingerly into Dean's room. He wore the same white uniform as every other doctor and nurse at the hospital. His skin was almost as light a tint as his wardrobe, but his short hair was a deep, nearly-black, rich brown. Beneath a pair of thin eyebrows, a pair of worried blue eyes peered curiously at Dean. His mouth was a pink, expressionless line.

"Hello, Dean," the doctor said automatically. He stepped closer to Dean and extended his hand. Dean shook it, and nearly gasped at how unusually frigid the flesh felt. "I'm Dr. Novak, but you may call me Castiel, or Cas, if you wish."

Dean nodded. "Good morning."

Castiel settled himself in the chair, opening a folder he had been holding and examining its contents. His eyes scanned over several pages, sometimes peeking upwards to look at Dean. At occasional intervals he would emit a _hmm_, as though his suspicions about something had just been proven.

"Well, Dean, it's a pleasure to meet you." Dean didn't hear much pleasure in his doctor's voice – not any emotion, really. Even his voice was gruff and cold; Dean couldn't picture him with a smile on his face. The face of the strange man facing him looked permanently glued in a neutral expression.

"Nice to meet you, too, Doc."

"So, Dean, tell me about yourself." The statement sounded more like a computer searching for facts than a friendly conversation opener.

"Where do I start?" he inquired. He had to stall, think of a way to figure out if this was the demon.

"As early as you can remember, preferably."

Castiel gripped the pen in his hand – he hadn't been holding one before, had he? - and held it in position above the paper. Dean tried to think of a way to make his childhood sound as normal as possible.

"Well, uh, when I was a kid, my family moved around a lot. My dad had to travel for work, and we'd always come along with him."

"Mhmm. And in what line of work was your father, if I may ask?"

"He was a hunter."

Castiel raised one eyebrow. "A hunter? I didn't know one could do that for a living."

"Yeah," Dean said. "I think I was four when my little brother was born. His name was Sam."

"Oh? What was Sam like?" Dean hated the way his brother's name sounded on Castiel's tongue. It sounded all wrong, rough and forced.

"He was – is smart, even when he was little. He didn't have much of a chance to show it with always changing schools, but he was the greatest kid. He wanted to be a writer when he grew up."

The memory was bittersweet. Where they were now wasn't even close to where they'd wanted to be.

"Where's Sam now, if I may ask?"  
This was Dean's chance. If he could get Castiel to pity him, he might have a chance to talk to Sam.

"I – I don't know, actually. Haven't seen him since yesterday."

"That's a pity. What else do you remember from your childhood?"

The rest of the session went similarly, with Castiel asking about Dean's life, his earliest years, his relationship with his parents. He recorded each detail painstakingly in his notes, listening carefully as Dean explained how much he liked to work on cars, looking up when he talked about his mother, and finally shutting his folder and standing up when they were through.

"I appreciate your time, Dean," he said, and then he was gone.

On the way home, Castiel's phone buzzed. He sighed, reaching for the device on the seat next to him, then lifted it up to his ear.

"Balthazar."

"Good afternoon to you, too. What's up?"

"I just finished my first week at the hospital."

"Fantastic! How did it go?"

"Very well, unlike you expected, brother. I have a patient by the name of Dean Winchester."

Balthazar gasped. "The serial killer? Isn't he dangerous?"

"Yes, he is the serial killer. He seems decent, though."

A chuckle on the other end. "Decent? Only you would say that about a murderer. I'm a little worried about you, though."

"I'll be fine."

"I just don't want you to get hurt. You don't have to keep this job, you know. Our father has enough money to support us - "

"You know how I feel about that, Balthazar."

"I know, I know. Mr. Independent doesn't want to rely on his dad anymore. But if anything bad happens, call, alright?"

"Of course."

Castiel hung up and drove the rest of the way in silence.


	3. Chapter 3

The routine of living at the hospital slowly got easier for Dean. Every morning, another nurse woke him up, bringing him new clothes and taking the ones from the day before; every morning, Dean obediently ate his repulsive breakfast and waited for his session with Castiel. It wasn't that he really cared about his doctor; it was more that the daily therapy was the only thing that broke up the never-ending monotony of hospital life. But although he became accustomed to the schedule, Dean felt worse than ever. He had made absolutely no progress on finding the demon, despite several unsuccessful attempts at interrogating the other patients. He felt childish and emasculated in the ward. People could be dying out there, victims in the demon, but trapped in the prison-like ward, he was powerless to stop it. Finding Sam became even more of a necessity than before.

Dean survived this way, his guilt a constant twisting pull in his gut. For two weeks he managed to avoid telling Cas any specific details, instead giving him a blurry idea of his childhood. One morning, however, when the doctor entered Dean's room, he sat down and said, "Tell me about yourself."

"Wha- more? I've told you everything."

"Not everything," Castiel said. Dean thought that for the first time, he saw something of a glint in Castiel's eyes. "You have told me about your life – not about yourself, Dean."

"I don't know what you mean."

Castiel looked earnestly at Dean.

"You're hiding things." Castiel paused. "I've had many patients who acted the same way. They thought it was better to suffer in silence than share their thoughts with me. My superiors tell me you see things. Monsters."

Dean leaned back. "What's it to you?"

"It's important. You need to talk to me if you want to recover."

"Recover?" Dean retorted. This – doctor – he couldn't fix anything, if there was even anything to be fixed. Knowing the truth about things that go bump in the night wasn't a walk in the park, but it sure beat not knowing. And all the pain he'd experienced, all the death he'd already seen, more than anyone else would see in a lifetime, was just the price of knowing the truth.

"You have to trust me."

Dean frowned.

"When did these delusions start?"

He'd play along. For now.

"They started when I was a kid. Just after a house fire."

Each word was a bitter poison. Although Dean was used to hiding the reality, saying it was a lie, just a bunch of tricks his mind played on him, was even worse.

"What was the first one you saw?"

Dean racked his mind. He couldn't say the first one – not yet. It was too personal. But every other monster after that was blurred together an inseparable, confused line.

"I'm not sure. But for the first few years, I never actually _saw_ anything. My dad, he-"

He cut himself off.

"What about your father?"

"He saw them too. He hunted them."

"Is this why you-"

Dean nodded curtly. "I guess you could say it runs in the family."

"And your mother?"

"Passed away in the house fire."

Castiel's eyes remained ice-cold.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"So am I."

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Dean's eyes glued themselves to the carpet beneath his feet, and Castiel averted his own from Dean, instead flitting them towards the window.

"A demon killed her."

"A demon?"

"I was on its trail when I came here. Found another thing here that turned out to be a demon, but it got away."

Dean halted suddenly, looking at Castiel with a new level of suspicion.

"It could possess anyone. It could be in one of the nurses. It could be in another patient. It could even be in you."

"Dean," Castiel said. "I am not possessed."

"Funny, I don't believe you. Prove it."

Castiel sighed, running a hand through his hair. He shouldn't listen to his patients' delusions – it was the first thing he'd learned training for this job. But -

"No."

After Cas left, Dean lounged on his cot, between falling asleep and remaining conscious. There were probably at least a few hours until lunch would begin. With no clues as to the demon's or Sam's whereabouts, his mind was free to wander.

"Whatcha doin'?"

It was Gabe, leaning casually against the doorframe.

"Hey," Dean said. "I could ask the same of you."

\ Gabe smiled, slipping further into the room. "Oh, nothing. Just checking on my most famous patient."

"Famous?"

The nurse raised his eyebrow in mock surprise. "You don't know? You're Public Enemy Number One. I can't go a day without seeing your ugly mug on the 'tube."

"You're lying."  
"You know I'm not. You've killed, what, ten people now?"

That must be why the other nurses had been so afraid of him. And now, if – when – he got loose, it would be that much harder to not be caught again.

"You can't escape," Gabe continued.

"Get out of here."

"So rude!" Gabe exclaimed. "But suit yourself. If you don't want the pleasure of my company, fine."

He left.

Dean strolled to the window, scrutinizing the placement of the bars. A sort of metal plate surrounded several inches around the window, and as far as he could tell, it coated the same portion of the window on the outside. The bars were secured by these plates, which in turn were tightly screwed into the wall.

He gave the bars an experimental tug. They moved slightly – less than a centimeter – but it was enough to give Dean hope.

Castiel gripped the salt shaker in his hand, rubbing his finger across the ridges in the glass and watching the miniscule grains turn inside of their container. It wasn't anything special, but according to Dean, those tiny specks had the power to burn a demon – and show Dean that his doctor wasn't possessed.

He could barely believe what he was considering. Pretending to acknowledge the existence of Dean's delusions, even to gain his trust, was completely forbidden and could only hurt his patient down the line. It was something he'd never done before.

He set the shaker on the table in front of him. Dean was a particularly stubborn patient, Castiel reasoned. Most were eager to get what they were carrying off their chests, but Dean held his secrets close, pushing recovery away. If Castiel could make Dean confide in him, he could help. He wanted to help, to uncover every shameful skeleton in Dean's closet and help him bury it for good, wanted to take that haunted look off Dean's face. It was a look he'd seen in his own brother's eyes innumerable times after he came back from war. Castiel could imagine feeling so terrified after being in combat, after seeing so many men die, but he couldn't comprehend getting battle scars from his own mind.

Helping people was his job, and he would help Dean. No matter what it took.

It felt as though Castiel was hiding a loaded gun, but his clammy hands held nothing. Every step someone took in his direction made his heart palpitate. He felt they could read his mind and discover the blasphemous intention he had in his mind.

_I should not do this._

He'd arrived a few minutes earlier than usual; there was still time before he did this to abandon the idea altogether.

The rules in the ward, including the one he was breaking, kept everyone safe and happy, for the most part. They ensured the recovery of nearly every patient, and disregarding them was the worst crime Castiel could commit. What he was about to do could impair or completely derail Dean's healing process. But a small part of him knew this was what he had to do. There were always exceptions.

"Hi, Castiel."

Cas flinched. "Hello, Gabriel."

"How's Winchester's treatment goin'?"

He kept walking. Gabriel followed him. "That is none of your concern."

"None of my concern?" Gabriel spat. "We're housing a _murderer_."

"And we are helping him get better."

"You think that'll solve everything? Fixing whatever's wrong in his head won't undo what he's already done."

"It can keep him from doing more. He did not understand what he was doing. If we show him he was wrong, he won't do it again."

Gabe shook his head derisively. "You should be careful, Cas. I know it's important to care about your patients, but I'm starting to thing you care too much."

"Carry on with what you were doing, Gabriel."

Castiel strode past him.

"Dean?"

Dean bolted upright in bed, searching beneath his pillow for a gun he instantly remembered he didn't have.

"Cas?" he asked warily. "It's a little early, isn't it?"

"No. This is the usual time for our session."

The door behind Cas was shut. He was standing uneasily, one leg bent ahead of the other. If Dean hadn't known better, he would have thought his doctor looked guilty.

"I've thought a lot since yesterday," Castiel spoke. "I want to prove something to you, but you have to promise me something first. You have to trust me."

Dean turned on the lamp and stood to face Cas. For all he knew, this wasn't even his doctor; it may never have been. A demon masquerading as someone else wasn't new.

"Exorcise me," Castiel said.

"What?"

\ "You want me to prove that I am not possessed; I want you to talk to me."

Dean considered the idea. "So if I do this, you get to psychoanalyze me?"

"If that's what you want to call it, yes."

He didn't exactly want to open up about his past. It was dark, painful, and he preferred to pretend it didn't exist. But if it was the only way to make sure he wasn't spilling his guts to a demon – what could a man do with Dean's secrets, anyway? Especially if he thought he was crazy?

"Alright. I'll do it."

He kept his eyes focused on Castiel as he recited the first few words of the incantation. The doctor was unharmed, but his eyes were downcast, following patterns on the carpet beneath his feet. Dean continued with the exorcism, pronouncing each word with the care of a preacher reciting a Bible verse. The familiar words were permanently etched into his brain from years of harsh training. It was unusual to see that nothing was happening – no convulsions, no screams, not even a growl – when he'd grown so used to seeing the telltale black smoke of a possession. He finally finished the act, and Cas stood just as before, unaffected but perhaps ashamed.

Seeing Cas unharmed, the tightness that had kept Dean's entire body tense relaxed.

"Thank you," he said.

\ Dean suddenly realized how much Castiel had risked to do this. He didn't know much about working in mental wards, but he was pretty sure doctors weren't supposed to acknowledge whatever crazy things went on in their patient's minds, not like this. Because to Cas, Dean was probably just one more patient in a herd of many delusional others. He had no idea that what Dean saw was actually reality.

Castiel was stunned for a moment, as still as a statue, then forced a few words out. "You're welcome."

Something of a smile spread on Dean's lips. "I guess I owe you now," he told Cas. "Take a seat."

After Cas was settled, Dean continued. "I really appreciate what you just did. You have no idea how much."

And he meant it. He'd had no one but his dad and brother who believed him before. Whether or not Cas actually believed, it felt incredible to have someone acknowledge him.

Castiel's mouth parted in a thin smile, which paled in comparison to Dean's. "I believe you have some things to tell me."

Dean hesitated.

Castiel leaned forward, locking eyes with Dean. There was a warmth there Dean hadn't seen before. "Please, Dean."

This time Dean held nothing back. He had no reason to, not when Castiel had trusted him and in turn proven himself trustworthy.

He started at the beginning – the beginning being the night Mary died. Talking about that memory stung; it was as though he could still smell the bitter smoke, still feel the heat from the ravenous flame as it devoured his home and his life, see his father's pained face telling him to take Sammy and go. He could still feel his brother's terribly limp form as he carried him out of the house into the yard outside.

That was when his life changed, he told Cas. There were no more trips to the park, no cheerful family breakfasts at the table, no more football games. Everything was about hunting and revenge. He was confused at first, but worried, too, but he got used to the constant travel and smelly motel rooms. His dad taught him everything possible in terms of weaponry – from firearms to swords and every deadly thing in between. School no longer mattered, and neither did friends; they didn't spend more than a week in any particular place.

The rules his father had ingrained into his mind were still present: "Shoot first, ask questions later" and "Watch out for Sammy." Killing became second nature to Dean, and protectiveness a trait he would never lose. He had long ago forgotten what it felt like to pity the victims of his and his father's hunts. Although many wore a human skin, they were the epitome of monster beneath the deceptive flesh.

And Sammy was gone, Dean explained as his voice began to crack. He'd always promised to look out for him and he'd failed. The demon could have him – or he could be dead.

"I'm so afraid for him," Dean said. "I just need a way to reach him. I need to know my brother's alright."

His eyes swam, and he hastily wiped the tears away. A burst of anger filled him – why was he revealing so much to a total stranger? It was shameful. More than that – it was mortifying. Castiel showed sympathy, though; his previous smile had turned downwards into an empathetic frown. His eyes glistened.

"I'm so sorry, Dean."

"I miss him."

Castiel nodded. "I know how it feels to be separated from a sibling. It's a terrible feeling."

"Don't tell me you know how it feels!" Dean snarled. "He's in danger. He could be _dead. _I can't do anything to help him while I'm trapped here."

"You don't need to be angry with me," Castiel said. "I want to help."

"And how can you help?"

"Your brother can come and see you during visiting hours. I can call him and tell him where you are."

It was tempting. But he was sure Sam had a price on his head, too; Cas might use his number to find him and have him locked up.

"I want to call him myself."

Cas shook his head and stood. "Patients aren't allowed to use phones."

"Please, Cas," he implored. "I did what you wanted; I talked to you. I told you more than I've ever told anyone."

The doctor lingered, hand on the doorknob.

"I need to talk to him. Just five minutes; that's all I want."

Castiel lifted his hand from the door and stepped back into the room. He'd already done too much for Dean. But the trust they'd just built was fragile, and it could be easily broken.

He took his cell from his pocket and handed it to Dean, who took it disbelievingly.

"You're the best," he breathed.

"I'll be right outside."


	4. Chapter 4

Dean's hands shook with trepidation as he typed out the number. He held the phone to his ear, entire body pulsing with adrenaline. The dial tone rang once, twice. Dean held onto that number, counting the incessant beeps, praying feverishly _Pick up, pick up._

The phone nearly fell out of his hand when he heard Sam's voice.

"Sam-!"

"You've reached Sam. I'm not available right now, so leave a message at the beep."

_Beep._

Dean's heart fell.

"Where _are _you, man?" he asked. He waited for a few seconds; Sam might still pick up. But he didn't, so Dean went on.

"I'm locked up at the psych ward here in Challis. Where we hunted that werewolf, remember? Except he's really a demon, and I've got no clue where he is. Everyone here is in danger."

Dean glanced furtively around the room. Hopefully there were no cameras.

"We need to meet." He searched through his scattered memories of the town from before he'd been caught. "I'll find a way out if I don't hear from you. Be at that little cafė in a week. Listen, you need to be here as soon as you can. I don't know what that demon's doing, and I can't-"

The phone clicked, ending the message.

Castiel opened the door.

"Did you reach him?"

Dean shook his head, extending his hand to return the cell phone. Cas took it and pocketed it.

"Is he even on medication?"

Castiel bit into his burger, glaring at Balthazar over the wooden table. The space around them was noisy and chaotic, filled with the scent of cooking food and alcohol.

"He will be soon. You know as well as I do that these things take time."

"No, I don't actually," Balthazar retorted. "You haven't exactly told me much about your job."

He downed several sips of his drink before Cas spoke again.

"I had to diagnose him first. He refused to tell me anything I could use to do that until yesterday."

"Isn't there some kind of file you could have looked through? A record about him?"

"There was," Cas said. "But those don't tell the whole story. And even after speaking to him, I still need to wait a few days before the medication becomes available."

"How can you be so confident he won't blow up before then? You've seen the news."

Castiel sighed, eyebrows furrowed. "In all honesty, I can't know for sure. But I believe he has a good heart."

"I hope you're right."

A waitress appeared beside their table. "All done?" At Balthazar's nod, she began stacking the plates.

"Would you like a dessert today?"

Balthazar flashed a wide grin, rubbing his stomach. "Tempting, I admit. But I couldn't eat another bite."

When the waitress departed, Cas smirked at his brother. "You've always been such a glutton."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Balthazar replied. "Like I always say, what's life without a little fun once in a while?"

The waitress arrived with the check, then retreated back to the kitchen.

"Anyways, about Winchester-"

Several heads turned upon hearing the name. Castiel flushed.

"Brother, I would appreciate if you did not make any more recommendations about his treatment. I know how to do my job. Besides, I shouldn't be talking about my patients outside of the hospital."

"But you make an exception for me – your favorite sibling," Balthazar said coyly, as the two stood.

"I shouldn't. But unwise as it may be, I trust you most of everyone in my family."

Castiel held the door open while Balthazar walked through.

"Our brothers are all a bunch of jerks anyway. How they treated you – it's ridiculous. You're the only one with half a brain."

"Thank you, Balthazar."

"I think it's time for you to have some treatment," Castiel said at the end of their session the next day.

"Treatment?" Dean demanded. "Hasn't that been what all this 'talking about my feelings' stuff is?"

"Technically, yes. But you are also in need of some medication."

"Why? Afraid I might do something?"

Castiel smiled grimly. "Not me – the rest of the staff. Medication is protocol for someone - " He halted suddenly.

"Dangerous?"

Cas nodded. "I've seen so much improvement in you – I don't think you are what they think. But I could lose my job for not obeying."

"I know what that's like," Dean muttered.

"Could you repeat that? I didn't hear you."

"I said, I'm a little scared to take it."

His mind was all Dean had in the ward. He couldn't let it become foggy, tired or whatever else medication would do to it.

Castiel unexpectedly moved his arm forward, so that the warm flesh of his palm enclosed Dean's knuckles. From the unsureness of the motion, Dean guessed this was the first time Cas had comforted anyone.

"It will be fine."

"I hope so, Cas."

An instant later, seeming to realize that he had overstepped his boundaries, the doctor jerkily leapt up.

"It takes a few days to obtain the medication," he said. "It will be here relatively soon, so I suggest you behave as well as you can. Perhaps I can still change their minds."

And then Cas was gone.

It was definitely odd – when Dean first met Cas, he could have never imagined the doctor offering any kind of comfort to, or challenging protocol, for Dean. But that was exactly what he was doing – in a period of a few brief weeks, he had changed. He actually cared about Dean.

Dean hoped he hadn't experienced the same metamorphosis. The tough attitude and lack of fear – most importantly, lack of caring – he'd always had were his most important traits. A hunter couldn't risk caring for someone who might be dead in a week, targeted by a monster just for being an accomplice. It was one of the things he hated most about this line of work, although he would never admit it; it was why he settled for relatively safe flings and one-night stands. He'd wished before to just leave, go find someone, but he knew hunting would catch up to him, like it caught up to Mary. It always did.

It was the first time Dean decided to visit the room downstairs since he'd been to the ward. Socializing with a bunch of loonies wasn't number one of his list of priorities, but the only other option was staying in his room, watching the sky change colors through the window. Maybe retracing his steps would uncover some clues he'd missed before.

The room was massive compared to Dean's quarters. Multiple small tables, both round and square, were spread across the floor, with various card and board games sitting atop them. There were a few games already in progress – a couple of patients playing Yahtzee, a few more playing poker or moving the miniature figures around on a Monopoly board. One person, a young man, sat by himself in the back of the room, shuffling and reshuffling a deck of cards.

Dean approached the man and took a seat facing him. He didn't look up from his frantic movements.

As Dean watched, he found himself mesmerized by the constant motion of the man's hands; it looked like a dance, a desperate one, on which he was convinced his life depended. He had created a perfect, feverish rhythm – something that at first seemed irrational and useless turning more and more hypnotizing the more Dean saw. But the patient's eyes were red and his fingers shaky, and he held just a little too tightly to each scrap of paper.

Dean cleared his throat.

Shuffle. Reshuffle. Shuffle.

"Hello," he finally said.

The patient looked up, movements unceasing.

"Who're you?"

"I'm Dean," he said; he stretched out an arm for a handshake, but the man didn't seem to notice.

"Earl," replied the patient.

"What's up with the cards?"

Earl's eyes had already fallen back to them. He made no indication that he had heard Dean.

"Hey," Dean said again, a little louder. "What's up with the cards?"

Earl snapped his head upwards, hands working even more furiously.

"It's the only thing I can do."

"What?" Dean glanced around, bewildered. "There's so much more you could do. You don't have to sit here by yourself!"

"No one wants to talk to me."

"I do."

"You're nobody."

Earl returned to his cards.

"I want to talk to you," Dean repeated.

"I hate it here."

"So do I," responded Dean, leaping at the chance. "I mean, the food's awful, we have to get up at the crack of dawn - More like a prison than a hospital, if you ask me, right?"

Earl didn't speak.

"So," Dean said. "Touchy subject, but what're you in for?"

The patient shuffled the cards a few more times. Dean wasn't even sure he could hear him.

"Alright, then how about I tell you?"

Earl shrugged stiffly.

"My brother and me, we hunt monsters. Vampires, ghosts, you name it, we've seen it. But just one time, I couldn't get away fast enough, and here I am."

He gestured at the room and patients around him.

"The thing escaped," he said. "And for all I know, it's still out there..."

"Suicidal," Earl said.

"You were - ?"

"Yeah. I thought my life wasn't worth living. Overdosed on pills and nearly died; that's when they decided it'd be better if I stayed here."

"Do you still think so?"

"What?"  
"That your life isn't worth living?"

Earl shook his head noncommittally. "Don't know. This place makes me feel even worse, to be honest. I'm glad I get a day out soon."

"A day out?"

"Yeah," Earl said. "Once in a while, if you're extra good, they'll let you have a day in the city. Supervised, of course."

Dean nodded slowly.

"Thanks," he said, standing.

"Thanks? For what?"

He was already out the door.

"Cas?"

"Yes?"

"Why exactly do I need meds?"

Castiel frowned. "I'm not supposed to say."

"Nobody will know. No cameras in here, right?" he bluffed. Honestly, he had no idea whether or not there were cameras; although he'd checked thoroughly, he couldn't be sure.

"No, but I can't disobey protocol again. It - "

"Nobody will know," Dean repeated.

"Telling you would be unwise …" Cas said, but Dean could see his composure cracking.

"Please."

The doctor sighed heavily, then spoke again. "The medication is for your delusions."

"Okay."

That was what Dean had expected. He knew the monsters were real, though, so it probably wouldn't affect him beyond making him drowsy.

Cas stood to leave, but Dean had another question lingering in his mind from several days before.

"Wait."

Cas turned.

"The other day, when you said you knew how it felt to be away from a sibling – what did you mean?"

Dean instantly regretted asking. All of Castiel's typically calm features tensed.

"I'm sorry," Dean blurted. "I didn't realize – you don't have to - "

"It's alright," Cas said as he settled once again in his chair. "With how much you've shared with me, you deserve to know."

A torrent of painful memories flooded into Cas' mind. They settled at the back of his tongue, eager to be spoken and to injure their owner once again.

"I come from a very religious family. We went to church every Sunday, prayed before every meal, and studied the Scripture. All of us, including me, firmly believed it was the Word of God."

Most of these memories were more sweet than they were bitter. Sunday school with his friends and brothers, taught by Ms. Naomi while his father watched the sermon, was Castiel's favorite time of the week. He loved learning the Word – it enchanted him, especially the idea that those ancient words were told originally by God Himself, invaluable codes of conduct for Cas to follow. Even his name and those of his brothers were impacted by the family's religion – all were named after angels or other Biblical figures.

"I can't say I had a horrible childhood. I didn't know my mother; she left when I was young, before I had a chance to miss her, and my father had a high-paying job at a prestigious corporation. My life was, for the most part, what you would call 'wholesome.' I never wanted for anything; I never went hungry; I never had too little.

Sometimes, though, I wished I had been born to a different family. My father wasn't always the kindest. And the entire family was dogmatic. I didn't realize it at first; I was raised that way. I judged others for things outside of their control. The one time I befriended someone of a different religion, my father forbid me from speaking to him again."

"Wow," Dean said softly. "That's awful."

"It took a while, but I started questioning things. I questioned everything, and I rebelled. I no longer believed, but I didn't let anyone know. I did so much that I'd thought was a 'sin' before. It was liberating; I thought I'd been saved before, but I really was free when I abandoned my faith."

As Cas spoke, the old feeling he'd had when he realized the freedom he had gained coursed through him again.

"It was then, when I was almost through with high school, that I realized that I wasn't … the same as everyone else. The other boys my age were interested in girls, but I – wasn't. I knew by then that it wasn't wrong, but because of what I had been taught my entire life, I felt guilty.

I tried to hide who I was. My family couldn't know. So I got a girlfriend; we were together for a few months. Until she found me with another boy. Of course, she told everyone she knew. Word reached my family."

"My father was furious. He disowned me. He and the rest of my family, all my siblings, kicked me out. They told me that I was an abomination, and that if I ever came back I would be a stranger to them. Only one of my brothers – Balthazar – left with me."

He lowered his gaze, scuffing his heels on the carpet. "I haven't spoken to any of my family, other than him, in years."

Dean wanted to disappear. His childhood may have been strange and awful, but he'd always known that his brother and father supported him. The idea of being scorned, rejected for who he was had simply never occurred to him. Cas had been ostracized by his whole family; it was a level of hate Dean couldn't begin to grasp.

"God, Cas," he said. "I didn't know. I'm so sorry."

Castiel smiled wearily, straightening. "I told you, it's alright."

"No, it's not alright," Dean said. His hands balled into tight fists. "Those jerks - ! I wish I could – They -"

"I've moved on, Dean."

He hadn't, not really. Thinking about his family still stung him, and he was more cautious now. But it wasn't his doctor that Dean should be worried about – it was himself, and getting better.


	5. Chapter 5

Five days until he'd planned to meet Sam. Finally, it seemed that there was a way out, and for the first time since his arrest, Dean felt true relief. He would be able to talk to his brother soon, tell him what was going on. Sam would be able to stop the demon.

But what if he didn't show up?

Of course he would. He'd just been busy when Dean called, obviously. Sam was probably on a hunt – maybe even tracking down the very monster Dean wanted to warn him about.

He just needed to behave until then. Whatever "behave" meant; as far as Dean knew, he hadn't done anything wrong yet. There was no doubt in Dean's mind that his doctor would allow him to go. After their recent conversation, when Cas had bravely opened himself up to Dean, he knew that Cas felt closer to him than ever. And a small part of Dean, one that he ignored and kept buried within the crevasses of his mind, was beginning to reciprocate.

The next morning, another nurse woke Dean, bringing him not only a fresh change of clothes but a tiny plastic cup, filled halfway with water. And a pill.

Dean was tempted not to swallow it; the girl sent to make sure he took it would probably be too afraid to question him. But the thought of getting out and seeing Sam compelled him to obedience.

He hadn't expected much, knowing that the medication wouldn't change anything. The moment failed to meet even his low expectations; he thought he'd feel _something_, but in an emotionless instant it was done, and the girl was on her way.

Four days left.

Dean was increasingly anxious. He needed to get out, but something was telling him to wait before proposing the idea to Cas. His intuition told him that the perfect opportunity would present itself soon enough.

The waiting was the worst part of it all. He'd thought that the monotonous, rigid hospital life would be the worst – and until now, he had been right. Being unable to do anything, not even talk to his brother, was the most agonizing experience he'd even had. He was used to leaping into action, used to constant hunting and never-ceasing travel. The confines of the hospital forced him to an abrupt, painful halt.

But the waiting – this was a new level of torture; he would have thought it created by one of Hell's most deranged experts. He was mere days away from seeing Sam, but still trapped in his bare room. It was infinitely more agonizing that the restriction had been when he'd had no such hope. The hours trickled by like years, and he had no clock with which to see them pass.

It came to him at night, after he had settled himself into his cot. This was how the demon would want him, worn-out and on edge from anticipation. The thing would want to drag this out, then snap his hope away, leaving Dean helpless. And who gave him something to wait for in the first place?

"Earl," Dean growled. Earl probably wasn't even his real name; more likely, it was one of the repulsive demonic monikers all demons had.

He was cornered.

It occurred to Dean then how defenseless he truly was. Sleeping like a sitting duck in his room, without a lock on his door and without a weapon. He turned restlessly, fixing unblinking eyes on the entrance. Nobody – and _nothing_ – was getting in.

Dean didn't get any sleep that night.

While Dean was having this revelation, his doctor was perched behind his laptop. Castiel's fingers hovered uncertainly above the keys.

The sky outside the window of Cas's study was dark. Although the moon hung at its peak in the blackness, it provided little light to the ground below.

It was late. Cas lived alone, yet he had waited for the secrecy of night to do what he had been considering for so long.

He took a sip of the cold coffee beside his computer in an attempt to relax, but his frantic heartbeat did not slow. If the things he did for Dean before had been bad, then this was the Holy Grail of wrongness.

Castiel's logic was fairly simple: he wanted to see if there was any truth to what his patient had been telling him over the period of so many weeks. Nevertheless, he considered shutting the laptop down and going to bed. He wouldn't find anything; that was obvious. But he didn't close the computer, and he didn't go to bed.

According to what Dean had said, if the demon was still abiding nearby, there would have been unusual deaths close to the town. They could be similar to the animal attacks from several weeks before, or take another equally gruesome form. Cas knew that even if there were, it would have to be the work of some human killer, not a monster.

His search for strange deaths near Challis returned fifty-two articles. "Woman Dies in Own Bedroom, No Sign of Break-In" read the title of one. Cas's heart jumped – but the article had been written over five years ago.

Before long, the words began to blur in Castiel's vision. One odd death after another - "20-Year-Old Marathon Runner Dies of Heart Attack," "Group of Churchgoers With Missing Livers Found in Forest," and countless others swam together. When he saw that every one of them had occurred too long ago to be related to what Dean was claiming, Cas breathed an enormous sigh of relief.

Then another headline caught his eye - "Local Shop Owner Murdered by Deranged Man."

Castiel knew what he would find in the article, but he clicked it anyway. Alongside a few paragraphs detailing what had happened, there were two photos: one of the deceased shop owner, smiling with his family, and another, a fuzzy mugshot of Dean. There was something different about Dean in that picture; no matter how brash he had been with Cas, his doctor had never seen the frightening and hostile gaze he was directing at the camera.

Unnerved, he continued scrolling.

_Winchester, pictured above, _the article read, _is the suspect of ten other brutal murders. Police believe he has also committed other felonies, such as grave desecrations. Based on his recent interrogation as well as articles found in his hotel room, he is believed to be traveling with his brother, Sam Winchester, although there have been no eye-witness accounts. He is currently being held at Challis Psychiatric Ward, where he will serve two months before being released for his trial._

The words stunned Castiel, shaking him to his core. He knew what Dean was, of course, and what he'd done, but he'd never been confronted by it like this. His hands quaked as he read on. At the end of the page, underneath a warning, there was one last picture – a photograph that, according to the article, had been released by the police not long after the murder.

Cas reeled back. He hadn't been a friend of Jack's, had rarely spoken to him. He had seen him on the street occasionally, or would run into him while at the grocery store. But the familiar, friendly face was devoid of expression. His mouth was parted, frozen in his last, desperate plea; his eyes were rolled back into his skull, leaving the milky white of his sclera exposed. That wasn't the worst of it; what hit Castiel the most was his body, thrown carelessly thrown against the wall, head lolling on his chest. Several bullets had torn holes through his torso, bloodying the fabric around the wounds. And the only thing running through Castiel's thoughts was _Dean did this. Dean Winchester, my patient, is a murderer._

He paled, snapping the laptop cover shut. His breathing had grown labored while he was reading, and he gasped, desperately trying to inhale. When he tried to move, taking a couple of uneasy steps, his legs shook beneath him, barely unable to hold up his weight.

He'd been so wrong to trust Dean.

The words from the article floated through his mind, forcing themselves to his consciousness. _Winchester. _That eerie mugshot was there, too, torturing him. _Ten other brutal murders. Grave desecrations._

Cas didn't know how he made it without toppling over, but he managed to fling himself onto his bed instants before his legs gave.

_Balthazar was right._

He was in too deep. Castiel should have never accepted this job; he could survive on money from his father, if he forgave him.

Dizzy and shaken, he fell asleep.

Three more days.

After Dean heard the nurse's knock at the door, he shut his eyes just enough to be able to see her. He pulled his blanket up further, feigning sleep.

She entered timidly, carrying the tray with medication in one hand and Dean's clothes for the day in the other. "It's time to get up," she whispered.

Dean grabbed the blanket and pushed it off. He stretched, mouth opening in a large yawn, then approached to the nurse. A smile stretched his features.

"Good morning," he greeted her, suddenly realizing he had spoken to none of the nurses during his stay.

"G-good morning."

Dean took his pill, then waved the nurse off. As he dressed, the same smile remained on his face. Sunlight glimmered through the window, brightening the room around him; he could hear birds chirping in the cool dawn. It took a moment before he could place why he was so happy, then it struck him. Today was the day. The day he would ask.

The revelation of the night before still bothered him, but despite that and the lingering exhaustion, Dean actually felt _good_. Better than good, actually; great. With the eminent promise of leaving on the horizon, and an understanding of who the demon really was, Dean was prepared to take on anything.

He hummed throughout breakfast, tapping his fingers restlessly on the table in front of him. The other patients noticed the difference; a few nodded at him, and those he greeted – as many as he could – all smiled back. He was anxious to see Cas; he was sure his doctor would be impressed by how much better he was feeling.

Castiel pulled into his usual spot in the parking lot, then lingered there uncertainly. Images from the article were still present in his consciousness, and every time he closed his eyes, all he could picture were Jack's mangled body and that eerie mugshot.

He withdrew his cell phone from his pocket and dialed. Moments later. Balthazar answered.

"You were right."

"Cas?" Balthazar asked. "Shouldn't you be at work? Is something wrong? What are you talking about?"

"About Dean."

"Winchester?" Balthazar gasped. "Did he do something?"

"No. Nothing more than he had already done."

"What do you mean?"

"Jack," Cas said. "I knew him well enough to know he deserved nothing of what happened."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't want to work with this criminal. He is not worthy of my – or anyone's – help."

"Castiel," Balthazar started. "Wh-"

"I need to leave Challis. Let me stay with you for a while."

"Thank about what you're saying!" his brother exclaimed. "You were so excited to start this job. You were excited to help people."

"I didn't know what I was saying then, but I am sure now. Didn't you say yourself that you wanted me to be careful? You suggested that I not take this job. I am merely following your advice."

"I was wrong," Balthazar implored. "This is what you love to do. You should do it."

"You think I should aid this _murderer_?"

"People change, Cas. Isn't that the hospital slogan? 'Helping people change,' or something? You could be the person who does that for Dean."

Castiel sighed, drumming his fingers absentmindedly on the dashboard. "I haven't changed my mind. But since you are so convinced that this is good - "

"It is. For both of you."

"I will stay here until his court date."  
"Trust me, you won't regret it."

Cas hung up. Until Dean's court date – that left him a little over five weeks. Already, he regretted agreeing; even the thought of looking at Dean made his stomach churn.

"What's up, Doc?" As Castiel cautiously entered the room, Dean greeted him with a grin.

Castiel's heart palpitated when they shook hands, knowing that this hand was the one that pulled the trigger on Jack.

"I – nothing. Good morning, Dean. How are you feeling?"

"Fantastic," Dean's smile grew even wider. "Never better."

"That's very good," Cas said. "I'm glad."

"Just one complaint."

"What's that?"

Dean's eyes fell shyly to his feet, then back up to meet Castiel's. "I'm going stir-crazy in here," he said, "And I heard another guy saying he was getting a day out."

Cas frowned.

"So I was wondering if I could do the same thing? Say, day after tomorrow?"

"Why?"

The cold tone in Castiel's voice surprised Dean. He hadn't heard his doctor speak like that since the first day they met.

"That's when that movie comes out, right? The one with the robots? I've been wanting to see a good robot fight."

"You've been doing fine in the hospital for weeks now. You said you felt fantastic – why do you want this so badly?"

"Fresh air'd be good for me," Dean said. "I'm bored to death in here. Please."

"I'm sorry," Cas replied, his flat voice not remotely sympathetic, "Boredom is not an adequate reason for what you are requesting."

Stiffly, the doctor stood.

"What's up with you, Cas?"  
"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do," Dean said. "Something wrong?"

"Something _is_ very wrong," Castiel spat. It was the first time Dean saw him angry; the emotion looked foreign on the doctor's face, making his eyes appear much darker. "You claim that what you do – this killing – is to save people. But you are the real monster. You mindless, selfish criminal! You should be saving them from yourself!"

Dumbfounded, Dean recoiled. "But-"

Castiel's mouth contorted into a gruesome snarl. "There is no excuse for what you've done."

"Cas, I - "

"Don't try to defend yourself. It is pointless."

Dean stood. "So that's all I am to you, huh? A criminal? At least I _do_ something. What do you do? Sit talking all day, prescribing pills?"

"You're no savior, Dean. A weak, spineless coward is what you are."

"Just let me - "

And with that last biting remark, he stormed out the door.

The words Dean had been dying to speak came out then, safe in the solitude of his empty room. They were a heavy weight on his shoulders finally being lifted off, a relief he didn't know he needed.

"I'm sorry."

But instead of feeling free, finally liberated from his burden, he was suddenly and completely hollow. He was not only emptied of his worry, ache, and guilt, but also of his hope. The promise of seeing his brother was faded now; escape seemed pointless, for it could not remove the impure stains from his name – stains that had been put there by himself as well as others.

Until then, he'd thought himself an unsung hero. But what is Superman without his strength? That was what he was now. He was trapped and defenseless, nothing more than a common mental patient. Every good deed he'd ever done meant nothing to the people here; they didn't understand what an impact he had made, how many lives he'd saved. To them he was just a psychopath, a maniac with a broken mind.

And there was a glimmer of doubt swimming beneath the surface, the fatal idea that he had always been wrong. It made no sense; being able to touch something, see it, should be enough. Sight had long been enough proof of the impossible for him. And it still was; at least, he thought so. But if Castiel was right – that all his attempts to help others were in vain – how could he ever make up for his transgressions? If that was true, and Sam still accepted him when he got out, he still wasn't sure he could forgive himself.

Two more days.

Dean ignored the doubt in his mind. Cas was wrong. He had to be. He was a stranger; he barely knew Dean, and he sure didn't have the right to tell Dean something he'd known all his life wasn't real.

But Dean wondered.

The hours until he would see Cas stretched on. Dean didn't know what he would tell him; part of him wanted to plead and beg for forgiveness, to swear that he'd been as much of a monster as Cas said. Castiel's words had injured that part of him. But the rest of him was furious.

Cas never arrived. After Dean ate and returned to his room, another woman entered.

"Dr. Novak won't be visiting you today," she said. "He's ill."


	6. Chapter 6

"Are you sure, Balthazar?"  
"No, I called you this late just to chat," he snapped. "Of course I'm sure."

"So much could go wrong."

"You think I haven't thought about that? You can get some of those wardens to hang around in case he goes nuts."

"I don't understand why you are on his side," Cas said. "I should not have called you about this."

"Look," said his brother. "I get you're scared. That's fine. But think about what this could do for you! If people saw - "

"A serial killer walking, apparently unrestrained, through the streets? There would be hysteria!"

"If people saw how much he's _changed_, that he's better now – because of you –"

"And if he attempted something, and someone got hurt, I would be responsible."

"That's not going to happen!" Balthazar exclaimed in exasperation. "He'll have no weapons, and if he tries anything, those wardens can hold him back."

Cas went silent, mulling over what Balthazar had told him. Dean deserved no pity. He was a ruthless, insane, cruel murderer.

But if there was anything Cas had learned over the past few weeks, it was that Dean was more than that. He was trying to do the right thing; in his own delusional way, he was a lifesaver. And he was more than an emotionless killing machine. There was a gentler, more emotional side to Dean that Castiel had uncovered.

"I will do it."

He hung up the phone and sped out of his office, heading for Zechariah's.

After Castiel suggested his idea, he stood with trembling knees before his superior. The man – a pudgy, middle-aged one with a ring of fluffy gray hair on top of his shining scalp – folded his hands together, sitting quietly.

"You think this is a good idea?" he inquired at length.

"I do, sir."

Zechariah's brow furrowed. "This patient is dangerous, Dr. Novak. He is psychotic and delusional, and he has been on his medication for only a few days."

"Sir - "

Zechariah gestured for Cas to remain silent. "When people learn of his temporary release, they will be afraid."

"But if he does nothing, if he is cured of his delusions, this hospital will be respected," Cas interjected. "You, as my superior, will be a _hero_."

"That's a big 'if,' Novak," Zechariah said, but his lips stretched in the beginnings of a smile.

"The wardens," Castiel said. "They can stop him, if anything happens."

Zechariah shrugged. "I suppose that's true. We will need many of them, just in case. They'll follow discreetly, so that Winchester doesn't notice."

"Are you agreeing, sir?"

Zechariah ignored the question. "You're fine with being his supervisor, aren't you, Dr. Novak?"

"Yes."

"Good. Then get here early tomorrow – before breakfast – and you two can leave in one of the hospital vehicles."

"Thank you," Cas said. "But I do have one more request, if you don't mind."

The older man raised his eyebrows as the doctor explained his request, then nodded.

"I'll do what I can."

"Cas?" Dean questioned, propping himself up on his elbow and squinting. "What're you doing here? You a nurse now, or something? And what's up with your clothes?"

Dean's doctor was standing at the door, holding a change of clothes and the medication tray. In place of his usual scrubs, he wore a tidy pair of black slacks, a white collared shirt with a tie, and a light beige trenchcoat.

"We're going out today," Cas said, grinning.

For a moment Dean was suspicious. There was too much difference, too much of a sudden contrast between the way Castiel had spoken to him the day before and what he was saying now. There was no reason for him to have changed his mind so quickly. But the thought was unusually fleeting, and he couldn't bring himself to care. He was getting out. He was going to see Sam.

Dean jumped up and strode immediately to Castiel, beaming. He downed the pill and snatched the garments from Cas's hand.

"Some of my own," Cas explained. "Hopefully they fit. I'll wait out here." The door clanged shut.

"Normal clothes," Dean whispered, shocked, upon taking a better look at what Cas had given him. Jeans, a T-shirt, shoes. They were clearly not new; the jeans were tattered and speckled with an assortment of holes near the knees, and mud coated the soles of the leather shoes, but it didn't matter. Hastily, he pulled them on, then stood in front of the mirror.

For weeks he'd seen no kind of clothing more unique than scrubs, sweatpants, and white T-shirts. He didn't recognize his reflection at first; a layer of stubble he didn't realize he was growing peppered his chin, a result of the poorly-made razor provided by the hospital; his hair was unruly and longer, and the new clothes felt foreign after so much time spent wearing hospital attire. It felt like it had been years since he had truly studied himself, and he found he'd changed when he wasn't looking.

He emerged from his room to find Castiel leaning against the opposite wall. The doctor nodded in approval, seeing that the clothing suited Dean well; the jeans were a bit short, but otherwise fit him perfectly.

Cas led Dean down the hallway, accompanied him in the long ride in the elevator, and finally escorted him to the parking lot.

Dean gasped. Sitting, in perfect condition, in front of the door to the hospital was the Impala.

"Cas - ? How did you - ?"

Dean turned, smiling wider than Cas had ever seen him do before.

The doctor grinned, but said nothing.

"This is awesome," Dean said, awestruck. The two walked towards the car, Cas unlocked it, and Dean clambered into the driver's seat. Instantly the distinct, refreshing smell of the Impala filled Dean's nostrils, and he leaned back, savoring the feel of the familiar material.

Castiel's glare snapped him out of his reverie.

"I'm not supposed to drive, huh?"

The doctor nodded. "I will drive."

Once Dean was sitting shotgun, he turned the radio on. Elegant classical music flooded the car.

"What the heck is this, Mozart?"

He fiddled with the button, skipping past a Spanish station, an obnoxious pop song, and sports radio. At last, the ruthless sound of an AC/DC guitar solo reached his ears.

"That's better," he said, and settled comfortably into his seat.

Cas turned the key in the ignition; with a roar, the car sprung to life beneath them.

The drive soothed Dean. Coursing down the road, music on full blast, in the middle of nowhere, he was finally back in his element. There was a reason he was so possessive of the Impala: it was more of a home to him than the ramshackle motels he so often visited. This moment felt just like going on a normal hunt with -

_Sam._

Well, he'd be seeing his brother soon enough, he reminded himself. He spent the rest of the drive rehearsing what he needed to tell Sam about the case – or tried to. Although this situation felt so familiar, the drive he typically felt to solve the case was glaringly absent. All he wanted was to see him, talk to him, and forget this had ever happened.

The car pulled to a stop at the edge of a barren field. Cas turned, retrieving a basket from the backseat.

"Where are we?" Dean demanded, while Cas led him deeper into the dead foliage. "I thought we were going to the city, not some - "

"We will," Castiel said. Stopping, he opened the basket and pulled out a blanket, which he draped on the ground in front of him.

"Wha – is this a picnic? Are we having a _picnic_?"

Castiel nodded. "You said you would like some fresh air. Sit."

Dean did.

After several moments of fishing around in the basket, Castiel withdrew two bottles of water and some sandwiches.

"Y'know," Dean said of the peanut-butter-and-jelly feast, "I never really realized how _good_ these things are. They're friggin' culinary masterpieces."

Cas raised an eyebrow.

"I'm serious. You learn to appreciate that kind of thing when you're holed up in there. This is the only recognizable food I've seen in weeks," Dean joked.

Castiel chuckled at that. It was the first time he'd laughed in front of Dean; the quip hadn't even been that amusing, but Dean felt ridiculously proud that he could make the humorless man grin.

"I've got a question for you, Cas."

"Hm?"

"How on earth did you manage to get my car for me? I thought she was under lock and key at the police station."

"I said that using one of the hospital automobiles wouldn't be beneficial for you."

Dean laughed. "It was that easy, huh?"

"Yes," Castiel said. "It was."

"Well, I'm glad you did it, anyway. It means a lot."

For the rest of the meal, the two sat in silence. The sun rose slowly on the horizon, bleeding orange and purple and finally light blue into the darkened sky. By the time they were done, packing the empty bottles and the blanket back into their container, the sun was far above their heads.

"Well," Dean began, "Where to next?"

Castiel drove them to the cinema, where a shaking, acne-ridden teenager handed the pair their tickets for the day's first showing of _Evil Robots From Space II_. The movie, as Dean had suspected, was a complete bomb, evidenced by its impressive audience of Dean, Cas, and two others. Dean didn't mind the cheesy special effects or second-rate acting, because he was out, he was free, at least for a while, and he was going to meet Sam.

They drove past the cafe a few times – the town was small, and getting _anywhere_ seemed to require passing by the building. Whenever Dean saw it, he tried to look through the enormous windows at its front, but every seat was empty. Cas saw him looking once, when they stopped for a red light.

"What are you looking at?"

"Ah, nothing. You ever been there?"

Castiel followed Dean's gaze. "The cafe? Do you want to eat again? It hasn't been very long."

Dean shrugged and turned up the radio. "Maybe later."

As it turned out, they ended up there sooner than Dean planned. Around one o'clock – maybe sooner, Dean wasn't sure – Castiel turned to Dean and asked, "What do you want to do?"

"Huh?"

"I have exhausted every activity I could possibly think of. We have eaten, gone to the theater, and driven through the entire town – _twice_. I am asking you what you would find entertaining, considering that we still have three hours to spare."

"We can't go somewhere else? Like a bigger town nearby or something?"

Cas shook his head. "We are only permitted to stay within the city limits."

Dean's consequent sigh was interrupted by a rumble from his stomach. He laughed abruptly.

"Well, I guess that decides it. Let's go back to that cafe."

Dean's entire insides managed to work themselves into a frenzied knot in the few minutes it took to return to the restaurant. With a clammy hand, he opened the car door and headed for the entrance. Each of the chairs seemed to be unoccupied. Odd. It was still high lunchtime. Maybe there were more inside, ones he couldn't see from the parking lot.

A young man greeted them. Dean craned his neck around him; there were a few older men sitting in the back, but otherwise, the place was vacant.

"How many?"

"Two."

He led them to a table near the center of the room, then vanished with a "Your server will be with you in a few minutes."

"How much time'd you say we got, Cas?"

"About three hours," he said. "But that is when we need to return; we have closer to two and a half."

The waitress, a short girl with a neat bun, showed up and dropped a couple of menus on the table.

"Can I get ya somethin' to drink?"

"I'll have water," Cas said.

"The same for me."

"Is something wrong, Dean?" Castiel asked. "You seem uneasy."

Dean forced his eyes, which had been scanning the cafe, back to the doctor. Sam had to be _somewhere _in here; even though he couldn't have called Dean, he must have gotten the message. He would never notcome when his brother needed him.

"I'm fine." A sign in the back caught his attention; it read _Restrooms_, and hung above a hallway. That was the only other place Sam could be.

As the waitress returned to the table, carrying two waters, she blocked his view of the corridor. They ordered: a burger for Dean, chicken for Cas. Nobody emerged from the back. Dean quietly excused himself, clinging to the last desperate hope he had – that Sam might be hiding in there somewhere, waiting for Dean to find him.

He wasn't there.

Standing in the cafe bathroom, washing his hands in the icy water, a terrible thought hit him. He'd never caught the demon; he'd never acted on the hunch he had, and the thing was still out there. It must have Sam. It was the only theory that could explain everything – why he had never visited Dean, why he wasn't there at the cafe.

When he exited, he bumped into someone. He smiled; _it's Sam, it has to be Sam, all that worrying was for nothing._

"There you -"

"Watch where you're goin'!"

Definitely _not_ Sam. Just the waitress.

"I'm sorry, miss, I didn't see -"

The woman grimaced.

"Didn't see me!" she exclaimed. "You saw me clear as day. That or you're just stupid."

"Ma'am, I can assure you, it was an accident -"

"Oh?" she spat. "Like killing that poor man was an accident? Like killing all those other people?"

Dean froze. Millions of replies, all along the lines of _I was doing it to protect people like you _and _You don't know the whole story _spun in his head, but none left his lips, leaving him gaping and searching for the right words. His usual humor had deserted him.

"Exactly. Don't see why they even let ya out. Jack meant a lot to this town," the waitress snarled, "and I don't care if I gotta stand up an' testify myself, I'll see to it that you get what y'deserve."


	7. Chapter 7

Dean handed Castiel's clothes back to him, already missing the feeling of wearing something different. A pair of hospital clothes had been sitting on his cot when they returned, and as he changed into the familiar, dull clothing, he found himself more frustrated than ever. The brief glimpse of the outside he had been allowed served more to whet his palette than to satisfy him. Even colors had seemed more vibrant than he'd remembered, food more savory, the air fresher.

And then there was Sam. There was only one explanation for his absence – that he was in grave danger. The demon had most likely taken him as a captive. That meant Dean's previous theory, that Earl was possessed, had a flaw in its logic. There were either multiple demons, one was alternating between several bodies, or Dean was completely wrong. Dean was doubtful of the last two theories; constantly swapping meatsuits would take a lot of mojo for a lower-level demon, and Earl just happening to mention being able to leave, as though he knew what Dean had planned, was too much of a coincidence to rule out demonic involvement somehow.

Which left Dean with an obvious course of action

"Cas," he said the next day, "we need to talk. About Sam."

"What about him?"

"I'm still worried about him. He'd have come and visited me by now. Something must've happened."

Castiel was paralyzed. With Dean on his mind the night before, he had attempted to contact the patient's brother. How could Dean know?

"What do you want me to do?"

Dean's face made that expression, the softened one with the shining, pleading eyes, and Cas knew he would request something he could not allow.

"I cannot permit you to use my phone again. It was a foolish decision and a risk to break ward policy, and I would not like to lose my job should anyone find out."

"I _need_ to do this, Cas."

"You cannot speak to -"

"Why _not_?" Dean yelled. "Something could be really wrong -"

"If you would allow me to explain," Cas interrupted. He opened his mouth, but there were no words to say what he needed. Instead, he asked, "Could you recall the night your mother died?"

Cas had to delay telling him. Perhaps if he drew it out long enough, it would last the whole session, so he wouldn't have to break the news to Dean just yet.

"What does that have to do with Sam?"

For the first time, Cas saw a hint of what Dean had done in his eyes. They were as dark as a mass of rainclouds, instants away from unleashing their inundation on the helpless land below.

"Dean, please. This is important."

The sky in Dean's eyes cleared partially.

"There's not much to tell, really. My dad woke me up in the middle of the night. He was screaming my mom's name, and calling for me.

When I got down there – to Sammy's nursery – most of the room was on fire, and I just felt this huge _heat _above me, and I looked up, and my mom was on the ceiling. Burning. I was so scared, I almost thought it was a bad dream, and I tried to pinch myself and wake up.

And Dad pushed Sammy into my arms, and he told me to run. So I did. I realized once I was outside how limp Sammy was. He was a real deep sleeper as a baby, so I thought, well, he could still be sleeping, but he was so cold, even though he'd just been in a burning room, not breathing. But as soon as Dad came back it was like he came back to life; it was like it never happened."

Castiel's eyes had grown wide in what looked dangerously like fear. Dean leaned forward and demanded, "But that doesn't have anything to do with what's going on now."

"There would be no purpose in calling him, because -" his mouth was so dry, his tongue clumsy. Dean scrutinized him intently. He stuttered, choking on the first syllable a few times, and the man across from him just kept staring. "Sam Winchester is dead."

Dean leaped up, face contorting from numbness, then to anger, then to sadness, a rare mixture of emotion exposed on his features. He tensed.

_"__Dead?"_

He began to pace feverishly across the carpet.

"He's _dead_? How?"

He supposed he'd known it all along, had known ever since that fateful hunt, but all the same, it was impossible. Dean couldn't bear to think of his brother, the vivacious, curious, intelligent man, with his heart finally stilled and his pulse stopped. He'd brought this on them; if he had been more careful, he would have avoided this case altogether. He would have never brought Sam to this cursed town. Now he pictured terrible deaths, Sam beaten bloody and tortured, before being killed slow. Sam dead because of him. It couldn't be.

"Sam died on the same night as your mother. He was dead when you took him from the nursery. The boy you knew afterwards was something that your mind made up because you did not want to believe it."

"Prove it." Cas was bluffing; he had to be, trying to pull one over on him. He wouldn't have any proof.

"Last night, I called the number that you used when I allowed you to call him; it was still on my phone, and I wanted to inform him of your location."

"And?"

"It is simply the number of a corporation."

Dean exhaled the breath he was holding. Sam was fine; Cas was just confused. He didn't understand.

"That doesn't mean anything," he said. "We change our numbers all the time. It comes with the job. Some new business probably picked it up."

"The business has been in place for over fifty years, and I called them to make sure – they have had the same numbers for the last twenty."

Dean fell silent. He spent a few moments digesting the information, trying to reason against it. None of this made any sense.

"You're lying."

Castiel shook his head. "I wish I were, but your brother died that night."

"So you're trying to tell me," Dean said, voice escalating in volume, every muscle tensed, fists curling, "the brother I've known my entire life is just a figment of my imagination?"

Cas nodded.

"Get out."

"I'm sorry -"

"I can't believe you'd even _think,_ for one _second,_ that I would fall for something like this. Get. Out."

Castiel stood, hesitantly leaning towards the doorway.

_"__Now!"_

There was no way that his mind could have created a person as real as Sam. Sam's attitude, his appearance, even his _smell – _things like that couldn't have been faked, like some kind of psychotic coping mechanism. Dean didn't know where Cas got his information, if he was even telling the truth. Which he clearly wasn't. But there had to be some other Sam Winchester out there, some Sam Winchester who'd died in a house fire. Endless days hunting, countless hours spent together, both good and bad times, could not be the fabricated weavings of an unstable mind. They left an imprint on Dean's brain that nothing less than a living, breathing, real, brother could have created.

Dean refused to talk to Cas for several days. He would come in for their session, some days apologizing, some days angry, others complacent, but never taking back what he said. Never trying to make amends for what he had suggested.

One day, something in his mind clicked into place. How Sam had disappeared without a trace before Dean was caught. How, when talking to him in public, strangers stared at Dean in confusion. How no one, not even the officer interrogating him, other than Castiel had even bothered to mention Sam. How, on his medication the day of the excursion, he hadn't been able to see him at the diner. What the doctor had said fit perfectly.

But it was wrong. Dean spent agonized days trying to wrap his head around the fact that he'd never had a brother, not really. He could almost hear Sam's voice, almost see him, and it hurt. When he finally, painfully, accepted it, there was one desire burning in his head. He wanted his brother back, even if what he had was fake. The gaping hole the figment had left in his consciousness was too much to bear, and he wanted to patch it shut.

That was when he stopped taking his medication. It was almost too easy, and a part of him was disappointed when the nurse left and he still held the pill hidden under his tongue. Every morning, he chucked it into the toilet and flushed it away. There was no point in sanity if it meant he was alone, but even then, it was like Sam vanished. Dean never saw him; that was the worst, that he could _sense_ him in his head but never see or hear him, besides in dreams.

Dean lived for dreams. There, the world wasn't always pleasant, but it wasn't as warped as reality. He had Sam, he had weapons, he had hunting. When he was sleeping, he was in a universe dangerous but familiar, unlike the waking world. He hunted with Sam, just normal hunts, like the ones they'd been doing their whole lives, but he always woke up to the frigid walls of the hospital.

Almost as much as Dean missed Sam, he wanted to avenge him somehow. While he hadn't been killed recently, trapped by the demon as Dean had thought, Dean still felt that Sam had been taken from him. He had been snatched abruptly, not only from life, but from the very plane of existence. The demon who caused the fire was nowhere near, so Dean would have to settle for taking revenge on the closest thing.

That thought led him to another idea, a better one. A demon had killed Sam; surely another demon could bring him back.

Dean barreled down the hallway and into the elevator, inebriated from the pure thrill of his plan. He had missed the chase of hunting, and now he had something to hunt. His entire body quivered in anticipation. Even as he was, completely weaponless, with only the memorized exorcism for defense, he felt powerful. When everyone saw, they would have to take him seriously, to realize what was real.

With a jolt, the elevator halted, and the doors slid open. The woman from his first day still stood behind the reception desk, but the rest of the lobby was barren of life.

Dean turned the corner, heading for the game room. He stood at the door and quickly scanned the patients before him. There was the middle-aged woman, who he had seen resisting being taken in, as well as numerous unfamiliar faces. No Earl.

"You guys know anyone named Earl?"

They stared at him blankly.

"About ye high," he gestured, "scruffy hair, -"

The wardens, who bordered the game room on all sides, tensed in unison. One moved a step forward from his place on the opposite wall.

"We don't have a patient by that name."

"Sure you do. I met him a few days ago." He might have left already; maybe his only purpose there had already been accomplished.

The warden shook his head. "Maybe you're thinking of someone else."

"No, he said his name was Earl." Dean was sure of that; the name was pounding in his skull, pulsating in his veins, and had been ever since he realized the man's true identity.

The warden simply shrugged. The lack of movement was too much for Dean. Adrenaline implored him to move, to fight.

He returned to the lobby, striding to the receptionist. Hastily he described Earl to her.

"No," she muttered. "I don't remember checking in anyone like that."

Dean's vision went dizzily red. He _needed_ to find him. Needed him to bring Sam back, or, if he didn't comply, to send that worthless monster back to where he belonged.

"Looking for me?" A voice called from the hallway. There he was, leaning next to the elevator. Dean snarled.

The woman looked frantically in the direction of Dean's gaze, then back to him.

"W-what are you doing?"

Dean walked past her. "You might wanna stand back."

He stepped closer to Earl, every muscle urging him to strike. The monster smirked, blinked, and then reopened its eyes to reveal pure blackness.

"You can't kill me, Dean. Face it: you're weak. You're weaponless. All you can do is send me back to Hell."

"And that's exactly what I'll do, if you don't do exactly as I say."

The thing chuckled, and Dean's blood boiled.

"You think _I'll_ do _your_ bidding?"

"Yeah," he said. "I think you will. Bring me my brother, or you'll be taking a one-way trip to Hell. And imagine what your boss'll do when he learns I'm still kicking."

"You just don't get it, do you?" the demon asked. "If I'd wanted to kill you, I would have done it long ago. This isn't about taking your life – it's about making you suffer. Now that's _fun_."

The demon's words, more than anything else he had said, enraged Dean. That the demon had wanted to kill him, just as the other had killed Sam – that was something he could handle. Bloodthirsty monsters were a normal day on the job. One that was intelligent, and cruel, enough to torture its victims psychologically -

Dean began exorcising him, but only managed to say a few words before the demon interrupted.

"And don't think I won't come back," it said. "because I will. I'll crawl through all those fiery layers, and I'll find you."

A biting remark rose to Dean's lips, but he swallowed it. The thing started twitching, but it kept that mocking smirk on its face. The woman sank in terrified haste beneath her desk.

The demon's twitches turned to spasms, forceful coughs making its body tremor. A thin stream of black smoke emerged from its mouth. Dean smiled grimly. Finally, the long, tortuous road of this hunt was ending.

Dean finished reciting the exorcism, and the smoke pouring from Earl's mouth thickened. With those last few words, every ounce of tension built inside him vanished.

"This is for Sammy, you evil son of a -"

Without warning, several pairs of hands grabbed Dean. The assailants restrained his arms, forcing them to his sides, and covered his mouth. In front of him, Earl's body crumpled to the ground. Dean tried to slam his arm back, to hit them with his elbow, but their grip was too powerful.

There was a pricking sensation on the side of his neck.

The receptionist emerged, phone in hand, from beneath her desk, as Dean's vision blurred. She spoke briefly with the attackers, and, overcome with a sudden exhaustion, he struggled to hear what she said. He understood few words, but he could barely make out _restraints _and _for everyone's safety. _Then the world around him faded.

Dean came to slowly. He felt disconnected at first, separated from his own body, and began to wonder if he had died. But his mind was dulled, and even that thought could not alarm him. Everything around him was blackness; no flames, no golden gates. If this was the afterlife, it wasn't so bad. It was safe and comforting, and it was like floating.

For hours, he hovered in that black space. After a while, the sensation of disconnection faded, which managed to convince him that he was alive, although he still saw nothing. He was able to feel, at length, his arms and legs, but he couldn't move them. When wakefulness arrived at his hands and feet, he wriggled the appendages, satisfied that he wasn't completely paralyzed.

All at once, he realized that some form of restraints were causing his immobility. From the feeling of them, they were probably some kind of straps; most likely, ones that held him to a chair or a bed. Noticing with a twinge of embarrassment that the only thing causing his apparently black surroundings was his closed eyelids, he pried them open.

He had been right about the restraints; leather bands, similar to belts but much thicker and sturdier, held his arms and legs at several intervals. The ceiling – he was lying down on what felt like a cot – was white, and glaring lights shone down on him from the fluorescent bulbs overhead. When he turned his head to the right, he saw a door.

Dean couldn't remember anything at first. When the memories came back, they did so all at once, inundating him. The first one he had was of getting in the car with Sammy to hunt a werewolf, then, one after another, he saw the events that had happened afterwards. He felt the cool touch of handcuffs, saw the outside of the hospital for the first time, and met Castiel. Over a month's worth of memory flooded his brain within seconds. Then he remembered the most crucial detail of all – Sam was dead.

Then, interrupting his train of thought, someone pushed the door open. Cas smiled flatly.

"What happened, Dean?"

"Uh -"

"This morning. That poor woman told me you asked her where someone was, then stared off at nothing and starting speaking unintelligibly. The wardens had to restrain you before you caused any harm. They said it looked as if you were about to start a fight."

_Staring off at nothing. _The demon was an illusion, too, then? Dean felt as if the very ground beneath him had disappeared. It couldn't be.

"Um, about that. I guess I just – couldn't handle what you told me the other day, about Sam. It got to me."

"I apologize," Cas said. "I should have been more sympathetic with you. I was rather blunt when I told you."

"It's not your fault." The two were silent.

Normally, Dean would not have so easily accepted that the demon didn't exist, but this was not a normal situation. Realizing that Sam was – well, no longer with him – left him feeling shaken. If something he'd taken for granted, something as simple as having a brother, was all a trick of his mind, could demons and monsters just be figments of his imagination? Several weeks ago, he would have been appalled by the very question. But it was possible. And then he thought of Jack. And every other 'demon' he'd killed in all his years hunting.

"I killed all those people, didn't I?"

Cas, who had been looking out the window, turned.

"You didn't know what you were doing, Dean. You thought you were helping."

"But I wasn't," he interjected. "I should've known, I should've -"

The doctor strode to Dean, glancing down at him. "You couldn't have known. Don't blame yourself."

"I don't even deserve to be lying here right now. I should be – in jail, or, or dead."

Cas shook his head.

"You were right. I am a monster."

"What I said was rash," he said. "You may have done bad things, but... At the time, you were trying to save people. You were facing dangers others couldn't even imagine, all to help strangers. And now, you realize what you did; instead of denying it, you take responsibility for your mistakes – for all that, I think you are far from a monster. You are a hero."

Dean started to shake his head, to deny it; he was far from a hero, he knew that now. But Cas saw good in him where Dean saw nothing but bad. While another would have rejected him, as he was sure they would for the rest of his life, Castiel was accepting. The light shining from the window provided a warm glow, and it spread across him, creating an appearance that was more than beautiful; it was holy, as it seemed to Dean. Rather than an imaginary demon or monster, Cas, in all his humanity, was a very real, very beautiful angel.

"You're amazing, Cas. I hope you know that."

Dean barely realized what was happening, but in an instant, the bands around him were unlatched, and Castiel's lips were caressing his own. Dean used his newly freed arms to grip Cas's back, pulling him even closer. As he did so, he felt the rough brush of Castiel's stubble, grazing against his cheek. The heat coming from the other man was equally unbearable and perfect.

He took the hem of Castiel's shirt, sliding the material smoothly part of the way up his torso. Cas stretched upwards in response and carelessly tore it off the rest of the way, then leaned back into the kiss.

_"__Dr. Novak!"_

It was the nurse from his first day there, who had escorted Dean to his room. Gabriel.

_"__What are you doing?"_

As quickly as it had begun, it was over. Castiel slid off the cot, his already flushed face deepening in color. He took the shirt from the floor and pulled it on.

"Gabriel," he said, "No need to shout."

"No need to shout? Oh, I'd say there is! You're -" the nurse seemed lost for words. "You're – _fraternizing_ with a patient, and no less than Dean Winchester, the _serial killer_. Or had that slipped your mind?"

"Please, Gabriel," Cas said, eyes downcast, "Lower your voice. We should discuss this outside."

The two left, slamming the door shut behind them.


End file.
